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Where the phoque have you been?: an update

August 22, 2011

Dear neglected readers,

Soon I will have some exciting news for you. Well I am excited anyway.

For now, here is what I have been up to:

  • my review of Michael Mackmin’s From There to Here is up at Sabotage Reviews (and has been for a while now).
  • I’m going to be quoted on the cover of Kirsten Irving‘s debut collection Never Never Never Come Back, due out next year! I cannot wait to read this, having absolutely loved her HappenStance pamphlet What To Do.
  • I did a reading at the Forest Café a week or so ago. I think intimate is the best word to describe it, but I managed to make sounds with my voicebox so all was fine.
  • The final line-up has been decided for ILK journal, and Issue One will be soaring onto the internet very, very soon.

As an apology for my disgraceful absence, please enjoy this poem by Brian Oliu, up now at RealPoetik. There are not enough video-game poems around in my humble opinion, and this one is a corker:


When I arrived, the music changed—all notes go silent:  the only thing audible is the hum of a soft rain, constant though we are inside, and for a moment it is peaceful, something we can sleep through, something that makes us turn off everything else so we can hear water on windows, on slanted roofs.  You appear in a flicker, fast strobe first, then slowing to a gentle spin, arms out stretched and palms upward like you are receiving something—that someone who loves you will place a gumdrop into your hand so you can close your fingers around the jeweled sugar and place it between your teeth in a dirty scarfing.  

This is where the lightning starts:  dry heat from the sky and into your hands leaving burn marks on skin, smoothing over heart lines like you have no heart, though I know it is there.  The bolts, jagged like raised veins come together in front of your stomach and slice towards where I am standing, speechless.  The outcome is uncertain:  the voltage runs over my body like a pulped orange turning everything I am into something I am not, or it doesn’t.  The current springs back upon you, knocking your helmet off of your head to reveal a face like mine, or it doesn’t.  The wind changes direction:  I know this because I cannot stand still—I must pick up what is left, I must hold your blackened hands.  I know this because for once I can see the rain slanted downwards:  falling in grey lines like the ghosts of our loved ones shooting towards the earth.
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